believe (in) me
by Steefwaterbutter
Summary: He really didn't want to be here. Surrounded by people at the social event of the century, trying to suppress the memories of the past that just had to come back to haunt him as well as the queasy feeling in his stomach. New Mission: Don't throw up in front of everyone. (Human!Connor AU)


_A/N: A good while ago, I found an h/c prompt about Character A not believing Character B when they say they're feeling sick, because A thinks the B is just trying to get out of an important event. And then B ends up throwing up in front of everyone. I was originally gonna make it about Peter and Neal from White Collar, but then thought that it fit even better with Connor and Hank. I wrote it in March, revised it about, forgot about it, finally remembered, cleaned it up, and here we are._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The room swayed slightly beneath his feet and Connor, former employee of Cyberlife, let out a small gasp, hands instinctively reaching out for something to grab.

The nearest object just so happened to be Hank's arm, his current partner (more like mentor, or "babysitter" as the lieutenant would say) of the DPD. Connor dropped his grip, but not fast enough. Hank turned and gave him a look, halfway between annoyed and amused.

"Alcohol hitting you, already, Connor?" the lieutenant said, his mouth curling into a small smirk. "Shoulda known you'd turn out to be a lightweight."

Connor took a step back and lifted up the offending hand to straighten his tie, stuttering, "I—I have not consumed any alcohol yet this evening, Lieutenant."

Hank rolled his eyes, before letting them drift over to a small group of officers chatting and laughing. Lights from the chandelier reflected in their glasses of champagne. "Told you, you don't have to call me that. At least not while we're off duty."

"Sorry, Lieu—Hank."

"Right." Hank rolled his eyes, pulling a face, before lowering his voice to mutter about "stupid charity events" and "you'd think he's going to Mars to babysit aliens."

Connor gave him a short, but stern look. "You know Captain Fowler advised we try to make a good impression. Dr. Whittaker's support is crucial for—"

Hank shot him a look of his own, one that clearly said, _shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. _"I'm gonna go catch up with Chris. Try not to go grabbing anyone else." He gave a short snort and disappeared into the crowd of people.

He looked like a peacock, Connor thought, a bright orange and blue striped peacock strutting amidst a colony of penguins. Of course, Connor had suggested he go in something more formal, but Hank had shrugged it off, saying he'd probably wouldn't be sober enough to care for most of the evening.

It was a Whittaker party, and that meant no expense would be spared. The guests (with, perhaps, the exception of Hank and a few of the other DPD officers) were high-class, the decorations were magnificent and…

Connor held a hand to his stomach, feeling the lightheaded feeling shudder through his nerves. He hoped Hank would stay sober enough to drive home. The hot air overflowed with perfumes and scented candles. He sucked in a breath and let it out, as if his breathing were some sort of fan that could cool him down. The shirt he had so carefully washed was sticking to his skin, and he ached to shrug off his heavy gray coat.

It was similar to the one he had worn back at Cyberlife, back when he worked with Amanda. Back when every day, her voice would snake through his ears, watching him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

_"You're showing weakness, Connor."_

No, _no, _no, no, no. _Get out of my head, get out of my head._

Connor closed his eyes and squeezed in another breath between gritted teeth. Just for a moment, his entire body tensed. Then he let it go, forcing himself back into his normal, alert and calm self. _Calm._ That's what he was. That was the emotion he could always rely on. The one that he could summon at any time.

Calm.

The best way to proceed would probably be to mingle with the other guests. He couldn't simply keep following after Hank. It would help to pass the time, and—he slipped a hand under his jacket, fist closing around the already crumpled shirt as another tremor of nausea passed through him—it would help distract him.

_[New Objective]_

_[Talk with guests]_

With small, yet purposeful steps Connor strode over to the small hors d'oeuvres table. In the center was a large ice sculpture of a swan, its wings lifted as if it were about to take off. Connor longed to reach out and stroke its elegantly curved neck, to gently wrap his sweaty palm around it, and let it cool his body from the inside out.

"You look like you wish that swan was real." A soft snort. "It would probably make better company than the rest of these snobs."

Connor's head jerked up at the sudden noise. It shouldn't have startled him. The room was already quite full of noise, the voices of people conversing all melding into one continuous chatter of noise. None of it directed at him.

Except for those two sentences that made him look… then stare.

Long, bright blue cocktail dress, one hand clutching a small purse, the other reaching up to brush back a strand of hair. Bright blue hair. Shockingly blue hair.

"Don't you just hate these 'charity' events? Really, nothing more than an excuse to throw a party and flaunt how rich you are, then have everyone fawning over what a great person you are."

The same shade as Traci's had been.

_"It was self-defense; he was going to kill me. I… was becoming too 'rebellious,' so they tried to get rid of me. I just… I wanted to live. I wanted to get out of there, just… get back to the one I love."_

_Her eyes met Connor's. They were almost animalistic, wild and desperate._

_"You'll be next."_

His throat closed up. It almost felt like a physical force that knocked him over, hands grabbing his knees. Black spots danced in his vision as the room swayed violently.

_"Why didn't you bring her in?" Amanda's voice was chips of ice, the sharp points dragging across his skin._

_"I—I don't know. I don't know! I don't—"_

"Hey, woah, are you okay?"

A hand softly placed on his back, concerned eyes looking into his. Nothing like the flinty eyes of Traci. Because she wasn't Traci, he wasn't back _there_, he'd gotten out of there, he'd—

Escaped.

"I—simply… I need to find my partner." The words came out hoarse and strained, leaking through the cracks of his façade of calm.

She nodded, giving a small wince. "Sorry if I startled you."

He gave a small shake of his head, a quick flash of a smile to show that he'd be alright. "It's fine."

She looked at him with raised eyebrows. She didn't believe him, of course she didn't—

Hank. He needed to find Hank. He needed to get out of here, out of the noise and the heat and _everything. _It pressed against him from all sides like a physical barrier, crushing the breath out of his chest, a hand sliding through his skin to twist his insides into a tangled mess.

The lieutenant was easy to find, standing off in a corner and nursing a small glass of champagne, and probably wishing it were something stronger. He looked up as Connor approached, simply raising an eyebrow.

"Hank…" Connor's voice came out quieter than he meant it to. "Can we… go home?"

No. Not "home", it wasn't his home, it was Hank's home. For Connor it was a very temporary place of residence while his own was being drained from the flooding, he should have referred to it as "back to your place," he shouldn't—

"Listen, Connor, if I could leave right now, I would. But Fowler's pissed off at me enough already and I can't risk—" He pulled away, face twisting into a scowl. "Nevermind. Stop trying to pull that puppy-dog crap to make me feel bad for you."

"R-right," Connor said, fighting to keep his voice steady against the rising churning of his stomach.

_[New Objective]_

_[Conceal any further signs of illness]_

His eyes darted around the room, hand fidgeting with his tie as his mind raced with the possibilities. The bathroom. He could go to the bathroom and wash up and maybe it would all go _away, and—_

"If it isn't the lovely Lieutenant Anderson and his new partner." An oily voice slid into Connor's ears.

Panic. Full blooded-panic gripped Connor by the throat, squeezing the air from his chest. He couldn't talk to anyone. Not right now. And he certainly couldn't talk to the head of the entire event.

"Connor, wasn't it? The one they say's more machine than human?" A short, harsh laugh. A smack on his arm. "Aw, lighten up, I'm just joking."

Connor just stared straight ahead, blinking hard. A movement that was usually so unconscious, the one movement that wasn't erratic. Usually. He gritted his teeth, trying to block out the noise, the words. The way his entire body had started to tremble, saliva collecting in the back of his mouth.

_Please, just go away._

"Leave him alone, Whittaker," Hank growled. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw him turn to move away.

He lurched towards the lieutenant, _Hank, don't leave me, _then snapped his head back towards Whittaker.

_[Conceal any further signs of illness]_

His mouth opened to let out some polite excuse—

But something entirely different came up instead.

.

.

.

_[Mission Failed __]_

Connor collapsed onto his hands and knees. He couldn't breathe—he _couldn't breathe, Hank—I need help—_

His throat burned with stomach acid, breath jerking in and out unevenly. It felt as if his body were set on fire.

_I'm… not… supposed to fail. _Heat stung at the corners of his eyes, as another heave rose up in his throat. _I wasn't supposed to make a scene…_

"Oh m4 g03d."

"W&h* hap78nd?"

Sounds feeding through his ears, getting lost on the way to his mind. His stomach squeezed, and his hands instinctively wrapped around the pain, as if the action could protect it from further harm.

"I'm okay." Small and soft, more like a whimper than a reassurance. "I'm okay."

He was counting the seconds to try and keep his mind off the suddenly overwhelming sense of _dying_ that wrapped round him like a noose, tightening its hold with each passing second.

Seven.

Seven seconds before the next heave came and he was left trembling.

The pain slackened after this one, just a touch. The rope loosening and giving him an inch of space to breathe. Enough time to try and heave himself up, trying to ignore the stares around in him a room of blurring red. Then he felt Hank's grip clamp on his arm.

Hard.

Because he failed, he'd ruined…

_"You've become obsolete."_

No. No, please. Please. Don't replace me. I'm still worth something, I'm still useful, I can…

"C*nN0r! C0nn&r, l0ok at me!"

A brush of cool air against his face. He let out a soft moan, wishing it were some sort of blanket he could bury his face into. His head dropped forward onto something soft. Hank's sleeve.

He was sitting on something, something that supported his back, his entire body. The air around him was dark blue, small pinpricks of stars in the sky above him.

"Okay, what's it with you and my arm today?" Hank asked, his tone settling back into that soft growl of his.

"Apologies." Connor let out another mumbling whimper, trying to lift his head. An exhausted shudder ran through his body, then the invisible fingers untangled from his stomach. For now.

"I want to go home."

Home. An idea more than a real place.

For a long moment there was nothing. Connor closed his eyes and breathed in the cold air, feeling it cool his burning insides, feeling the silence wash over his body.

"Okay," Hank said. "Okay. Let's go home."

Sumo greeted them with a soft "woof." His enormous paws padded over the tile floor to as he walked to Hank and licked his fingers, to which Hank responded with a rough pat on the head.

Connor simply sank to his knees. Hot breath flooded into his face and he opened his eyes to see Sumo staring at him, mouth open to let out a soft whine.

"Hello, boy," Connor whispered, reaching out a hand to settle into Sumo's long, soft fur. The dog leaned into his touch and he wrapped his arm around Sumo, trying to steady himself.

A sudden turning of his stomach. Connor raised a hand and placed it over his mouth, biting down on it an effort to distract himself from the sickly churning of his insides. The other hand wrapped itself tighter and tighter around the Saint Bernard's long fur. Sumo began to whine again, but Connor couldn't release his fingers.

Saliva filled his mouth, and he knew from the first time what was soon to follow. He couldn't throw up on Hank's floor, he couldn't, he couldn't, he—

"Here."

A small cleaning bucket was shoved under Connor's nose, and he slowly released his grip on Sumo's fur, only to grab the bucket in a death grip as a heave shook his body. Then another.

Except this time, he could feel Hank's hand resting on his back, heard his voice whispering "_Easy_." It steadied him, gave him something to focus on.

A reminder that he wasn't alone.

Then, before he knew what was happening, Connor was heaved to his feet, an arm slung around Hank's shoulders, and the moment of quiet was broken.

"C'mon, let's get you to the bathroom before you make too much of a mess."

It would have almost been amusing, if Connor hadn't been feeling so sick. _Just a few weeks ago it was me dragging Hank into the bathroom for some mandatory "sobering up."_

If he'd known what it felt like, perhaps he'd have been a bit gentler.

As soon as Hank let go of him, Connor sank to the cold tile floor, slumping against the side of the wall, his gaze flicking up towards Hank, who crossed his arms and muttered something about "like a half-drowned puppy" before turning to start digging in the medicine cabinet above the sink.

Out of all the places in Hank's home, the bathroom was by far the messiest. Bottles of alcohol littered the surface of every counter, sticky notes plastered across every mirror. The disarray made his head spin. _Shave or no? I'm not grumpy, I just don't like you._ Connor turned his head to rest his eyes on the blank wall and was greeted by some sort of smear.

Of what, he couldn't be quite certain.

"Here," Hank said, returning to Connor's side and held out a glass of water. Connor all but grabbed it from the lieutenant's hands. He tipped back the glass, swishing it around into his mouth to get rid of the burning sensation that still lingered on his tongue, before spitting it out into the toilet. He took a small sip, closing his eyes as he felt it slide into his empty stomach.

When he opened them, he saw Hank with yet another small cup in his hands, this time with the tiniest of smirks on his face. "Now drink this."

"It's… pink."

"Yeah, and it'll make you feel better."

"But it's…" Connor eyed the bottle. "I'd—ah—rather not."

"Oh, for—"

Something grabbed his nose, tilted his head back, then an awful tasting fluid of sorts raced down his throat. He jerked away, coughing and trying to spit out whatever had entered his mouth, but found he had already instinctively swallowed it.

"Remember when you broken into my house, threw me into my own bathroom, and sprayed me with water until I was sober? You said it was for my own good."

Connor let out another whimper as his stomach cramped. "It hurts…"

"It's Pepto, and it's for your own good, Connor."

Connor's hands wrapped around his stomach, knees drawing up to his chest. The next words slipped out before he could stop them.

"There are exactly forty yellow tiles in this bathroom."

Eyes darting around the room, information pouring into his brain. A skill he'd had for a while. A skill that Amanda had snapped up in her long, delicate fingers. Refining it, honing it. Twisting it.

_"Your mission is over. It's time to return to Cyberlife."_

_"Wait—I-I can do this—I just need more time—"_

There used to be seven sticky notes here. You added one yesterday. You bought that sink around—" The words were cut off by his own body rebelling against him. His stomach cramped, and the words turned into a hiss of pain.

_"It's too late Connor. You failed."_

Something cold pressed against his forehead. The hiss turned into a soft groan as he leaned into the touch.

"Food poisoning," Hank said some of the gruffness leaving his voice. He let his hand drop from Connor's forehead. "What'd they do to you back at Cyberlife?"

"You knew?"

"Connor. I've been a detective for a long time. You think I wouldn't look into the new 'intern' who just showed up out of the blue, and started following me around like a lost poodle?"

"…I was scared."

His voice came out so soft he almost surprised himself. His eyes remained fixed on the tile floor in front of him, counting the small scuffs and scratches. Every stain. Every flaw.

"I guess… it came back to the thing I was always told as a child. That if I was in trouble, I should seek out a policeman. I wasn't really… thinking. I just had to get out of there." He hugged his knees tighter, blinking hard. "They were trying to find the limits of what the human psyche, what human… emotions could take. Amanda… I was her own personal project. Nothing more than a machine, designed to accomplish a task."

He blinked again, short little twitches of the eyelid as his body trembled. Another scar from Cyberlife he couldn't seem to shed.

"At first it was nothing more than a little side job. Then they began cutting us off. Cyberlife became our… residence."

He's telling it all wrong. It's all out of order, disjointed and non-linear, not like how information should be presented.

Perhaps he never was good at following all the rules.

"Traci was the first to escape. I was sent to go after her, to bring her back. That was my mission. The first mission I failed."

It hadn't matter as much then. Not as much as it mattered now. Because he'd failed _Hank, _he'd failed, he wasn't supposed to fail Hank, not the man who'd taken him in, protected him, kept him out of harm's way when Cyberlife was dragged into the light. Offered him his home when Connor's apartment had flooded. The first person in a very long time who was kind to him.

Something lodged itself into Connor's throat, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He inhaled a choking breath, then let it out.

Everything hurt. It felt like everything around him melting into darkness. The quiet garden of his mind, the one he'd tried to coax back to life after everything around him had fallen apart, turned into a raging blizzard.

"Now… I've failed you too, Hank."

Arms wrapped around him and pulled him into a hug. Holding him steady. Holding him up when everything was falling apart. Hands gently pressing against his back, his head buried in Hank's shoulder.

"Bullcrap. You're the best partner I've ever had."

Connor let out a small "okay." His breathing came out ragged and even, shivers still coursing through his body, something wet squeezing out of his eyes.

"It hurts."

"One of the joys of being human. C'mon."

He was lifted up, gentler this time. He let his head fall onto Hank's shoulder, not bothering to look where they were going, not until he felt his body falling onto a soft bed.

Connor glanced up. The room was unfamiliar. It almost looked like a young boy's room, shelves full of small action figures and scattered comics.

"Hank, this isn't the couch."

"Shut up, Connor."

Hank tossed him a dark green towel. "Put this over the pillow so you don't accidentally throw up on it. I'll be in the next room if you need anything. And for God's sake, don't throw up on Sumo."

With a soft "woof," said dog jumped up on the small bed next to Connor. For the first time that evening, Connor felt a small smile tug at his lips. He lay his head down on the scratchy material of the towel, the other hand working its way into Sumo's soft fur, eyes closing before he even told them too.

He could feel his body slipping away but forced his scratchy throat to slip out two small sentences.

"Thank you, Hank. For… everything."

"Don't mention it, kid."

Connor smiled.

Then he closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him.

* * *

_A/N: If you enjoyed, please leave a review! I always love reading them. :D_


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